


The Name of my Beloved

by PaulAtreDeezNuts



Series: Tumblr Shitposts [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Cringe, I APOLOGIZE, I know this is bad, IT'S A JOKE, Nudity, Other, Parody, Shame, Terrible Nicknames, also i hate x/reader fics, but it was a bad bunny, but that's really the only way this awful thing will work, more glossy elf muscle than is really needed, ridiculous sex references, terrible, this is an unfortunate juncture, you see there was a bunny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 09:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulAtreDeezNuts/pseuds/PaulAtreDeezNuts
Summary: What if characters in Tolkien's works had truly reprehensible nicknames?





	The Name of my Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a tumblr post by someone who probably doesn't want to be tagged in this nonsense, first couple paragraphs are my inital response to their post on tumblr.
> 
> Apologies again.

“Elrond is much too formal,” he said, untwisting his plaited hair and pulling it free of jeweled pins. “I much prefer Ronnie.”

The silk robe slipped like water from his broad shoulders and he half-turned away with a smile and a wink.

“Ronniekins if you’re really sweet.”

You’re probably wondering how you got here – a 21st century silicon-age wunderkind shouldn’t be about to boink an elf lord in a fictional magical hotspring that somehow spreads the scent of roses through the misty morning air as it frames that selfsame elf lord’s kickin’ bod in wreathes of writhing light, but hey, shit happens.

Mostly you’re just hung up on the nickname. Ronnie? Really? _Ronniekins_? REALLY?

But Elrond’s distractingly terrible pet-name fades rapidly from your thoughts as your eyes travel across the warrior’s scarred skin and powerful, rippling shoulders. He has turned his back toward you and is proceeding forward, crossing the cool limestone cave beneath his bedchamber in Rivendell to approach a steaming pool that faces the sunrise. Beyond Elrond’s bodacious buns and the quiet waters of the spring the cave widens and presents a magnificent window to the forest – the trees below are shrouded in milky mist, the rocky walls on your level are cushioned with jasmine and honeysuckle twining their way through the rocks, and the sky is a deep velvet purple scattered with stars that is brightening to a violent pink along the horizon, warming the morning the way that the intense presence of Elrond and the weight of his affection is warming your loins.

He is kneeling at the edge of the pool, lowering himself in and letting the water cover his long, smooth legs. The steam rises around him and obscures his lower body from your view but you can’t miss his smile as he extends a hand to you.

“What are you waiting for,” he whispers, and suddenly you can’t shed your clothing fast enough. You toss aside a waistcoat, tear away some pants, and stumble clumsily into the pool beside him, splashing him as you fall gracelessly into its depths.

The pool is dark and warm and enveloping – but a strong hand grasps your shoulder and pulls you to the surface; Elrond’s hair is plastered to his face, shattering the gravity of his manner and leaving behind laughter and a toothy grin you’ve never seen before.

“I see,” he says “you were waiting to find your balance!” He tucks the soaked strands behind one pointed ear and the smile, the mists, the flowers, the throbbing glow saturating the sky above the trees – they are too much for you all at once and you drown them out by kissing the beautiful creature before you.

He’s startled but not upset – he lets out a happy gasp as you pull him toward you and press your mouth to his. He practically purrs, actually, and presses his long, lithe form against yours. His arms drape over your shoulders and your hands find his hips. The water of the pool is warm but his skin is hot beneath your fingers. He rocks his hips against you and you feel the pressure of a soft tongue against your lips and open your mouth to him while holding him more firmly by his waist. You feel the growing column of his erection against your leg and grind against it, provoking a moan and then a growl as he buries his fingers in your wet hair and devours your mouth. He leans into you, holding you against the wall of the hotspring and pressing your legs together before rutting into the space between them, desperate for pressure.

What I’m getting at here is that this half-elven hottie is DTF. Don’t screw this up, mortal. 

You pull back to breathe, surrounded by the taste and feel of Elrond – for a moment the weight of ages untold, of wars and passions and a tremendous upswelling of grief, the terrible gravitas of the elves, is resting in your mind, vivified by the scent of sweat mingled with blooms opening to the dawn - which vanishes from your mind in an instant as the dark-haired vixen before you wraps your grasping hand around his cock and squeezes your ass with broad, knowing hands.

His mouth finds the muscle between your neck and shoulder, clamps down with bright teeth and sucks at you, drawing forth a hungry moan you’ve never heard from yourself before. Your hand tightens around the smooth rod of flesh and Elrond sighs into your shoulder, sucking the skin so hard it starts to throb in time with the pulses you feel low and deep within yourself. 

With a sudden surge you push away from the wall of the pool and change positions – now the tall lord of Rivendell has his back pressed against the rim of the spring, waist-deep, his graven torso rising from the water like a living, breathing, horny statue. You lift your chin and nip at his collarbone, repositioning your hand beneath the water and moving your mouth lower to take one blushing nipple between your teeth so that you can hear him suck air and ask for more.

Together you moan and grasp and groan and lose patience with one another. He kisses you wildly so you claw at his back; you roll his soft, heavy balls in your palm so he ghosts his fingers over your entrance; tongues battle for dominance, yadda yadda yadda.

You come together when you’re done doing whatever it is you’ve done (losing track of who’s in what position dozens of times along the way); it’s magical and ethereal in the only way fucking an elf could ever be. The sun clears the horizon, the fog clears from the forest, birds sing, flowers fill the air with an overwhelming perfume that can’t mask the clean, sharp smell of sweat and passion. Somewhere, for some reason, someone is singing in Sindarin. Magical, you know.

When you’re done panting and have washed off various residues in the now thoroughly defiled spring your lover dons his silken robe and brings you one as well, and three towels for your hair – one for your head and one for each of your feet.

“Elrond,” you whisper, “that was amazing.”

“Ronniekins,” he corrects you before sashaying up the stairs to see if there’s enough lembas to sustain a halfling through another few rounds in the pool.


End file.
